Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Dog Days of Summer Part I
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Continuing my WIP "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle," in this chapter it's one step forward, two steps back in Mr. Gold's battle with depression, but it's two big steps forward for Jo and Cerise. Written for @a-monthly-rumbelling's August prompt, "Mayor for a Day," this chapter had so much to cover that I've divided it into two parts.


_"Back then, the thunder gods_

 _They used to cast our lots. . ._

 _Girl, it's time you took back your life._

 _Underneath the stars above I said,_

 _"No stop. I am not giving up on us. . ._

 _We'll be riding out this storm."_

 _-"Cloud Riders," Tori Amos_

* * *

The moment I walk into his house, I can sense all around me the hard work Jo has put into this simple lunch invitation. His floors shine; his windows glisten; there are vases of flowers strategically placed throughout the house, so that each room carries a soft scent, but not so that these scents clash with each other. Even the photos on his walls have been dusted and the Doves in them seem to be smiling brighter. He's set out china and silver in his dining room. From the oven an aroma of baking bread wafts. I could hug him for all the effort he's put into this—as if Blue is my mother and he wants to impress a prospective mother-in-law. I could hug him and I do, several times, before Blue arrives at precisely noon. (Was she waiting outside, staring at the second hand on her pendant watch? I've caught her doing that in her appointments with board members.)

I greet her with a small smile and head nod, but Jo shakes her hand, inquires into her health, then, with a hand resting lightly on her elbow, directs her inside. He gives her a tour of the downstairs before settling her at the dining table. He asks if she would prefer coffee or tea, and I prompt her choice by informing her that one of Jo's specialties is experimenting with tea blends. Today's experiment is a Laoshan Black and Kusmi's Euphori blend. She diplomatically chooses tea. He pours, presents our cups, then offers us sugar, lemon and milk. Beneath the table, my foot taps soundlessly. I'm waiting for the shoe to drop. Waiting, I realize with a jerk, for Blue to say something offensive, giving me an excuse to blow up at her. Waiting for a chance to defend the man I love from the woman who never loved me.

I look across the table at Jo, who's chatting easily with my judgmental guardian/boss. Small talk is a skill he's developed over years as a banker and property manager. He's confessed conversation doesn't come easily to him, having grown up in a household in which body language was the primary language spoken. Dove the First and Dove the Second, as Gold's right-hand men, had no need for small talk. Their height and heft provided background while the silver-tongued Gold carried the conversation. I'm so proud of my Dove now, as he manages to get ten minutes out of observations about the humidity. I lift my teacup in a subtle salute to him, thanks for the care he's put into this luncheon. Appreciation for the man who's gone to so much trouble for me. Respect for the man I love.

The man I love. Huh. Yeah, I guess I do. And though neither of us has spoken the words, I don't doubt their existence. This teacup in my hands is witness to it. For him, then, I'll rein in my anger, even pretend I want Blue to feel welcome here. Fake the warmth until it becomes real. If Jo can do it, so can I. When Jo steps out to fetch his fresh-baked bread, I pick up the thread of the conversation, moving the subject along to a description of last weekend's fishing trip. Blue, like most fairies, is a vegetarian, so she sees no purpose in fishing, but she feigns interest, though she wrinkles her nose when I describe the aroma of fish frying over a campfire. She doesn't ask me when I became a meat eater, I suppose because the topic could provoke an argument. My dining habits are, as she would perceive them, a repudiation of my heritage, just another way I'm slapping her in the face.

When Blue accepted this invitation to lunch, Jo advised me to take the acceptance as an olive branch. She knew that Jo knew I'd informed him of her recommendation that I stop seeing him. Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he'd extended the invitation anyway, just three days after her recommendation and just two days after I'd popped into her office, my face stone but my heart beating in my throat. "I've considered your advice concerning my personal relationships." My little speech was well rehearsed and I stuck to my script. "I appreciate your interest in my welfare. I think you've misjudged my friends, however, and I will continue to socialize with Jo and Mr. Gold. I have nothing more to say on the matter. Have a good morning." Before her open mouth could find words to lash me with, I walked out, busying myself with a meeting with the nurse.

And still, Jo had persisted in calling Blue anyway. And somehow he'd succeeded. He's convinced that her appearance here is evidence of a willingness to change. My heart swells with gratitude toward him, so I'll dare to hope he's right.

When Jo returns from the kitchen, he's carrying a tray with two platters. One holds the sliced bread; the other holds an assortment of cheeses, olives, pickles, pimento spread and three kinds of butter (no meat). "We have chocolate parfait waiting in the wings," he announces as he passes the bread platter.

I hum as I select two slices of bread. "Mmmm. The bread smells wonderful, Jo. And Jo's chocolate parfait is as light as a rose petal." When the vegetable platter comes around, I spear up two slices of cheese for my bread.

"Delicious," Blue agrees, biting into her pimento sandwich. "Mr. Dove—"

"Call me Jo, please. Only people who are asking for bank loans call me 'Mr. Dove.'"

"All right, Jo. Where did you learn your cookery skills?"

That story is good for another ten minutes of small talk. We continue like that for the next hour, each of us making the effort to find a safe topic to introduce. Certain words—"dating," "boyfriend," "magic," "fairies"—are carefully avoided. When the platters are empty and the parfait cups scooped out, Blue sees her escape and takes it. We walk her out to the street, where an autocab silently arrives for her. Jo asks her come again sometime; he'll call next week to set it up. She invites us to the convent next week for Sunday dinner. We wave her goodbye, then collapse into each other, laughing tiredly, when the cab is out of sight. "That went well," he says at same time I'm thanking him for his great efforts. Though we're talking over each other, we manage to hear each other just fine. We follow the words with kisses.

"I'm very fond of you, you know," I murmur into his collar.

"I'm fond of you too," he answers without hesitation.

My voice drops; I'm not sure he can hear me, but I don't have the courage to speak up. "But I think it was today that I fell in love with you."

He's heard me. He holds me away from him so he can look into my eyes. "That's good, because I'm in love with you too."

Arms around each other's waists, we leave the words floating in mid-air and go inside to wash the china.

* * *

I'm walking past the dining room, on my way to the holodeck to check on Mr. Smee. It's suppertime, and as is my habit, I pause to count heads, taking note of the absences from the supper table. Besides Smee, Ms. Hua is missing—I'll check on her after Smee. As has become his habit, Mr. Gold is seated at the table, his plate scraped clean. According to the nurse, he's gained two pounds in the six months. He smiles at me even as he's debating with Mr. Herman the issue of free trade between Storybrooke and Misthaven. But suddenly he stops talking, something in the hallway attracting his attention. "Good evening, Ms. Blue. Won't you join us?"

Blue halts in mid-step. "Oh. Ah, well, all right." She comes in and murmurs to Darwin, "Yes, I'll have something," and the android dishes up a plate for her. They're programmed with every resident's and every staff member's dietary requirements and preferences.

"We were about to discuss tonight's television choices," Gold informs Blue, then shoots a warning frown at Herman, who starts to correct him. " _Classic Theatre_ is running Olivier's _Hamlet._ Have you seen it before, Blue?"

"I like Mel Gibson's better," Ms. Lucas pipes up, to which Mr. Benson quips, "You would."

The topic of immigration back-burnered, the conversation turns to safer ground. Blue manages to participate, hesitantly at first. I've always thought it was her arrogance that kept her from socializing with the residents, but as I listen to her now, I'm wondering if it's simple shyness. I've known her all my life, and I've never once seen her go out with a friend, or have a friend in. Her conversations, even with potential donors, are all business. Between Jo's small talk and Mr. Gold's silver tongue, maybe she's on the verge of acquiring a social life.

Her meal half-eaten, she suddenly checks her pendant watch and excuses herself. Something about an appointment, she says, even though it's after 6 p.m. But as she rises, she bids us a good evening before she disappears into the corridor. A social life? Nah. But if he persists (and he will; he knows what's at stake) Mr. Gold might—well, not change her attitude toward him; that's impossible—but get her to see that he's not the cold-blooded slimy snake she's always seen him as. Maybe once he was uncaring, selfish, dangerous, but not any more. Belle is to thank for that.

* * *

It's a Saturday morning. Jo will be coming over soon to plan our trip to Malibu, but in the meantime, I'm sitting at my coffee table (since my apartment is too small for a kitchen table), sipping tea, munching toast and listening to my apartment read the morning headlines. Alas, my apartment's automation comes in only one flavor, one rather robot-sounding, neither male nor female or accented. But I've listened to the national headlines, then the news from my profession, and now I'm catching up on the _Storybrooke Mirror_. "It's a Boy for the Williamses," "City Council Votes to Increase Library Funding," "Summer School Attendance Up This Year," "Keres-Beard Files Divorce, Bankruptcy," "New Fire Chief—" I gasp and order the house to back up.

"Daeva Greene Keres-Beard, founder and owner of Storybrooke Decorating, has filed for divorce and bankruptcy on the same day. Just six months after wedding businessman Jacques Beard of Boston, Ms. Keres-Beard has filed papers with the Storybrooke Court to divorce her husband, whose shady investments depleted both his own bank accounts and hers. . . . Some question as to the legitimacy of the marriage has also been raised, as a Baltimore resident claims to have married Beard last November, less than three weeks before Beard's wedding to Greene Keres. . . ."

Yeow! I don't wait to listen to rest. Shouting to my house to call Jo and have him meet me in Mr. Gold's chambers, I throw on some clothes and run down the street. I find Mr. Gold in his rooms, working on his next message to Joey. I press a hand to the wall to hold me up as my legs wobble from my sprint.

"Sparrow! What's wrong? Here, sit down, catch your breath, have some tea."

"Greenie—She got Operation Misinformed a second time!"

Fifteen minutes later, Gold's next-door neighbor, Mr. Herman, is pounding on the wall, demanding we pipe down. We can't help it. We're laughing our heads off.

"The universe has course-corrected!" Mr. Gold sputters. "The Fates do listen to an old man's prayers!"

* * *

A lump in my throat catches me by surprise as our autocab pulls up in the long and winding drive to the stately red-brick convent. I swallow repeatedly as we step out and send the automated vehicle on its way. His hand on my elbow, Jo walks beside me across the lush lawn, past the daffodils planted along the sidewalk, up the stairs, which are dotted with pots of million bells waiting to be hung from the porch roof. I say something mundane, just to get my voice working again: "The sisters have been sprucing the place up."

"We hung new window screens in April," Jo remarks before glancing down at me. That lump in my throat hasn't gone away and now I'm caught out. "Are you nervous, Cherie?"

"Yeah." We stop at the top step and I look behind me at the lawn where I used to play croquet with the older nuns and catch with the younger ones. . . where Astrid waited for me at 3:14 every weekday during my first year of school and where Coral held me steady when I climbed onto a two-wheeler for the first time. "A little—though nothing she can say will change my mind about us."

He smiles reassuringly. "Let's find out if there's anything _we_ can say that will change _her_ mind."

With one last look back, I finally swallow that lump. "I kind of miss. . . not this place or the old days, but. . . ." I turn my face toward the front doors, which are opening, Coral, Astrid, Taupe and Amethyst all press into the available space. I don't get to finish the sentence as the four fairies rush at me, smothering me in their arms. Jo probably knows what I mean, anyway.

Jo is an imposing figure to any Storybrooker, but to the fairies, who, in human form, average five-three in height, he's got to be downright intimidating. Or would be, if they hadn't known him since he was four days old. Taupe, who's the boldest of the bunch, withdraws from the tight circle swallowing me up and throws her arms around Jo. "So good to see you again, Trey! I've baked some of those gingersnaps you love so much."

"Thank you, ma'am." Jo doesn't really like gingersnaps, but he got trapped in one of those polite lies many years ago and he's never had the heart to walk it back. From the time he could lift a hammer, he used to come over here with his father on the first day of autumn to install storm windows and clean out the gutters, and Taupe would reward them with gingersnaps and milk. Those chore days came to an end when Jo started high school and got a paying job, so I don't remember having met him during that time. Too bad, because he's shown me photos from his teen years and he was a cutie.

She steers him into the formal dining room—the nuns always eat all their meals here, though the kitchen would be so much cozier; it has something to do with respect for God, Astrid explained to me once; Blue thinks that dressing up for a meal, however simple the fare, is a sign of respect for the One who provided it. So Jo—or "Trey," as the sisters call him, because his grandfather was "Josiah" and his father was "Junior" to them—is pulled in to the dining room and plopped down on a chair to the left of the seat at the head of the table, where Blue will sit when she arrives. Coral, as the eldest sister, will sit at Blue's right, and I'll sit at Jo's left. The table has already been set with the convent's china and silver service. Crystal goblets filled with water (tepid—oh, what I would have given, in my childhood days, for a slice of lemon and a little ice) are lined up at each plate, and each plate is modestly covered with a white linen napkin folded into a simple rectangle (no origami foldings here). Butter, salt and pepper are in the center of the table, along with a single daffodil in a crystal vase (a concession to our gardener, Amethyst, granted to her fifteen years ago when she won Best in Show for her daffodils at the county fair). The tablecloth, as pristine as the napkins but just as unaesthetic, smells faintly of starch.

Every smell, every texture, every color (or lack thereof) in this room throws my thoughts onto "reset." I'm five again, in my Sunday school dress, getting my knuckles rapped with a bread knife for thumping my legs against the chair legs. I'm ten, in my Sunday school dress, getting scowled at as Blue thrusts her open palm under my chin, wordlessly demanding I spit out my bubblegum. I'm fifteen, in my Sunday school dress, and Blue won't even look at me today, she's so angry, because for my Careers Days essay I wrote that I wanted to study criminal law instead of gerontology.

Blue walks in; the sisters greet her and she nods hello to them and to us before taking her seat the head of the table. I'm twenty-three. I've stopped thumping chair legs and chewing gum, and I'm the Arbors' gerontologist that I was always fated to be. But I'm a fairy and I'm dating a human (half-human, half-dove) and that's worse than all my other infractions combined. "Hello, Blue," I chirp.

"Good afternoon, Cerise, Josiah." She spreads her napkin across her lap without looking at us. She nods at Astrid and Taupe, who are waiting in the kitchen doorway; they vanish into the kitchen and we can hear pots rattle, spoons scrape. Blue stretches her lips into a smile. "Well, Josiah, I trust you had a pleasant week?"

"Yes, ma'am." He proceeds to share news from the bank—they've hired a temp to fill in while Laurette is out on her honeymoon, and the Feds have raised interest rates a quarter of a point. The first course is brought out: celery and carrot sticks, bread (baked by Jo as his contribution to the meal, and sent over this morning by drone) and cheese (four kinds—I wink at Taupe in gratitude for making this such a special occasion. An ordinary Sunday dinner provides only Swiss and American.) and mushroom soup. Before we can pick up our spoons, Blue leads us in saying Grace.

I've heard that when one dines with a queen, one must stop eating just as soon as Her Majesty sets her spoon down. Such is the case at the convent. I have half a bowl left when Taupe clears away the dishes, but I manage to snag a celery stick before the veggie platter is removed. Jo, who's been clued in on the convent rules, raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing, not wanting my knuckles to get rapped. I don't really want the celery, but I crunch down on it anyway, and instantly I'm sorry; I was just acting childishly defiant. To compensate, I ask Blue about her latest knitting project. She takes pride in her knitting—more so, I've often thought, than she ever did in the child she raised.

The second course is a brown rice salad with parsnips and ricotta. I hate every word in that dish's title, but Astrid prepared it, so I eat a full helping. Bless his heart, so does Jo, and he compliments her on it, making her blush. Like the rest of us, Astrid has seldom received compliments, but then, the convent has seldom received dinner guests.

During the entree Jo moves on to Gold Properties news (plumbing leak in Camelot Apartments, a new baby for the couple living in the duplex at Moncton Street). It's routine, purposely so; he's tried out with me all the subjects he plans to bring up today, to make sure he doesn't accidentally tread on thin ice.

After some news about the Chamber of Commerce's autumn ball, that's it for Jo; he's out of topics. We had hoped Blue would pick up the conversation from there. She doesn't seem inclined to, though—that's not like her; she's usually good at keeping the chat going when she's hosting a member of the public, particularly one who's well connected in town (and who controls the mortgages to the convent and the Arbors). I wonder if she's trying to prove something. I rein myself in, resisting the impulse to jabber, and I search for a topic, but Astrid fills the void. "Thank you, Trey, for sending over the fresh-baked bread. It's delicious!"

Grabbing the opening, Taupe confesses, "I have the hardest time getting my bread to rise. What's your secret?" And between the three of them, a good fifteen minutes is eaten up with the exchange of cookery tips. That gets us through dessert (blueberry yogurt cake). When Blue lays her gently used napkin onto her plate, Taupe and Astrid clear the table, and the rest of us fold our hands as Blue says a second Grace. After this, she rises, as so do we all. "Let's take our tea in the parlor," she suggests. With instructions to Astrid to bring in a pot of chamomile, gracefully—she always moves slowly, carefully and femininely—she comes away from the dining table and leads the way to her parlor.

Jo and I exchange a glance—only important guests are invited into the parlor, not even the sisters go in there—so despite her silence, she seems to be trying. Unless. . . . The lump returns to my throat. She's going to start in on me again, demanding I break off with Jo—right there in front of him. She'll probably switch tactics, though, start on him, cluing him in on all my faults before reminding him that to any sort of "intimacy" (and we'll all know what _that_ means) with a fairy is a violation of nature as well as fairy law. Not even our ancestral cousins—elves, pixies, brownies—are allowed to have "relations" with a fairy.

I can't look up at Jo as I think these thoughts. It's not just Blue I'm worried about—it's me, that I'm having thoughts about having relations with Jo. Not that there's anything shocking about that; in Storybrooke, couples are pretty open about their sexual involvement, and no one but the nuns ever raise an eyebrow about it. But that's just it; I was raised by the nuns, and I'm fairy, and I've never. . .

Ooh but I want to. And I see nothing wrong with the wanting.

I raise my chin and take Jo's hand and walk right into the parlor, a few short steps behind Blue, as if I belong here. I take him to the settee—Blue always sits in her Queen Anne highback—and urge him to sit without waiting for Blue's invitation. Then I give my head a slight reminder shake: it's the celery again. I'm acting out. What is it about Blue that triggers me this way? No other authority figure ever sets me off. I try again. "Thank you for asking us to dinner. I hope we can make this a regular thing."

She ignores the niceties and gets right down to business, turning to Jo. "I'm sure Cerise had told you I have objections to this—" she waves a hand between us—"relationship between you. For many reasons. I'm sure I don't have to list them."

"No, ma'am." His leg is pressed against mine; I can feel the muscles in it tighten.

"But Cerise has always been headstrong, and I've found, with young adults, it's sometimes best to let them discover on their own they've made a mistake." Her steady gaze turns to me. "Did you know, Cerise, you're not the first child I've raised? There was another, even more opinionated than you. A Neverland fairy, who was sent to me when a plague killed off most of her tribe."

No, I didn't know that; I'd just always assumed I was the first—and put the blame for her lack of child rearing skill on her inexperience. Strangely, I feel a little jealous. "Where is she now?"

"She returned to Misthaven, years ago. Perhaps you've heard the sisters speak of her: Green was her proper name, but she called herself Tinker Bell. Heavens know why."

I have heard stories of the adventurous fairy, often told with giggles behind the hand. "Naughty" was the word most often associated with her. I would like to meet her someday, and not just because she is something of a sister to me.

"She went through a rebellious phase too, but as she became more familiar with the ways of man and as the world tamed her, she accepted her responsibilities. She now is captain of the guard for the Mab's Meadow tribe. Her defiant streak, tempered with respect for her role in the tribe, was put to good use. Perhaps you will meet her someday."

"Maybe," I admit.

"I've always hoped for a similar outcome for you. Turn that argumentative nature to good." She redirects to Jo. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but fairies are created for a specific role. It might be a modest one, like Astrid's and Taupe's, or it might serve a bigger purpose in the scheme of things. Cerise's role—the only reason she exists—is to serve the elderly at Arbors on the Bae. That's why, you see, she _had_ to succeed in her education, and why she must succeed in her job. For her sake. If she fails, she has no purpose in life. Unlike you humans, we fairies can't just drop one job and pick up another." Blue shrugs. "It's not a matter of choice or talent. The work we do is what we were created for. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Jo replies. "And I have no intention of interfering with her work. In fact, I've seen her with the residents. I can see that the relationships she's formed with them are vital to their well being. I wouldn't take her away from them for anything—or them from her."

"Is this"—Blue waves between us again—"a fling, then, for you?"

He answers without hesitation. "No." He picks up my hand, demonstrating to her that we are a team. "Excuse me, Mother Superior." It's the first time he's ever addressed her by that title; I suspect he's trying to humanize her. "If I come across as disrespectful, I don't mean to. But I happen to think that Cerise is an imaginative woman, and I'm a resourceful man. Between us, I think we can make everything work: her role in this community, mine, and the relationship we have together. I think that, with the support of our friends and the love we feel for each other, we can make something good. Something the Fates may not have planned, but will be pleased to see." He kisses my hand— _his_ rebellious streak is emerging! There's a fighter in him, one that I've seen only once before: the protector holding a baseball bat on an abusive husband. In this moment I realize it's not just affection I feel for him, but the attraction of kindred spirits, and I want to fight for him just as he's fighting for me. But maturely, in a way he will admire. In a way we can succeed.

"Blue, I thank you for raising me. For all you taught me, for all you gave up for me. And I understand your concern comes from a place of caring. I understand how important it is that we honor the rules of our tribe and that we live the lives the Fates mean for us to live. I will do the best I can to make myself into a fairy that my tribe will be proud of. But I believe that for me to be the person I'm meant to be, I need friends and advisers in my life, people whose experiences are different from what we've had here in the convent. Learning different points of view will make me a more understanding caretaker." I rest my head against Jo's shoulder. "And sharing this man's love will make me a stronger woman."

Her mouth falls open, then quickly tightens. I see sentences forming on her lips, but she refrains from releasing them.

"I don't know what's going to happen between Jo and me." I look up at him, including him in on this admission. "Our relationship might change—into a platonic friendship or into a marriage. I do think, whatever it becomes, it will last, and we'll draw strength from it for years to come. I know it's a violation of the rules, but Storybrooke itself is a violation, isn't it? Fairies never used to live side-by-side with humans. We never took governance from them. It's a new world for all of us. Maybe we need new rules. We're evolving, fairies and humans alike. I want Jo and Mr. Gold in my life. I want you and the sisters in my life too. Please don't deny me my place as your ward just because of who I love."

My throat is dry from the long speech. I reach for my tea with my free hand, but keep Jo's hand locked in my other.

"You will make your mistakes."

"We all do," Jo interjects. "If we're lucky, we have friends and family to help us fix them."

Blue shoots a scowl at him, but continues at me: "You will make your mistakes, like Green did. But you're a grown woman and I can't stop you. All I can do is offer my advice, _when you ask for it_. And make myself available to pick you when you fall, as I did when you were a child."

It's a victory. I won't spoil it by pointing out to her that it was never she who picked me up when I fell. I'll clutch to my breast her concession " _when you ask for it_." I wonder how many other parents out there have had to make such a concession. It's more than letting the baby bird fly out of your nest; it's letting her fly off into the arms of. . . a Dove.

I wonder if Maurice French felt this way when Belle informed him she'd fallen in love with the Dark One.

* * *

My lips drawn tight—because I know Andy will report me to Blue, on her order—I continue nonetheless into Mr. Gold's chambers with a chess set under my arm. I'm about to knock when I catch Jo's voice asking, "You're sure about this?" and Mr. Gold answering, "I am. I have no one else to leave it to. There are many magic practitioners out there who would pay well for it, even steal it or commit bodily harm to acquire it, but that's just the issue. It needs to go to someone who doesn't really want it and so, won't misuse it. All the better that she's under the wing of one whose grandfather and father understood what this collection could do and protected it most effectively. Do you see, Mr. Dove? In her hands and under your wing, that's the safest place it could be."

"I'll make sure it's kept safe, to keep her safe. But frankly, Mr. Gold, I love Cerise just the way she is. Taking on the responsibility of this gift, it's going to change her."

"For the better, I think. Her values are solid, Josiah; I think she'll use this information sparingly and in accordance with those values. If I don't give the collection to her, there's only one other I'd trust it to. If she refuses my gift, it will go to him. You'll make sure he receives it safely, won't you? He's known as the Dragon. He can be reached through a shop in Brooklyn."

"Yes, sir."

"But it's my preference that this collection go to Cerise. I think she'll make better use of it."

"Very well, sir. I'll bring it to you tomorrow."

"Thank you. Good afternoon, Mr. Dove."

Embarrassed for having eavesdropped, I wheel about and track down Ms. Hua, who's kept to her room today, due to a bout of queasiness that she blames on an experimental recipe. I distract myself by playing a game of checkers with her.

As the day winds down and I prepare to go home, my guilt is gnawing at me, so I call Jo and tell him what I overheard. I ask his pardon for having spied on him, then I ask point-blank what he and Gold were talking about. His lips purse and he's silent a moment, which makes me nervous all over again, but then he says, "Cherie, I'm going to have to ask you to be patient one more day. I'm honor-bound to secrecy. But believe me when I say, those notions Blue tried to plant are false. I've known Mr. Gold all my life. There's a grain of truth in what Blue said, but it's _old_ truth, do you see? The Dark One that Blue once knew, that's only a facet of who Rumplestiltskin was. There has always been much more to him that she took the time to see."

It's what I hoped to hear. The man who allowed me to experience with him, by holodeck, his wife's long death and his long grief could not be the con artist Blue described. I've seen his joy as his daughter was born and his children discovered their places in the world. Angry, I can believe that; defensive and fearful of abandonment, yes; mysterious, most definitely. I can wait until tomorrow to learn his secret.

* * *

It's July 14. Tomorrow morning Jo and I will be leaving for a three-day vacation in Malibu. I'm fully packed and excited, though a tiny bit worried about leaving just now, when Ms. Hua still isn't feeling up to par. There's nothing specific, according to her: just a general malaise, weakness, tiredness, joint aches. Dr. Marine's given her a check-up and declared "nothing to worry about, just get some rest." Our nurse, Amaranth, will drop in on her twice a day to bring her her meals and take her vitals, and Ms. Lucas will entertain her, so she won't get bored. "Shoo," Ms. Hua flicks her fingers at me when I suggest postponing my trip. "Imagine how cranky you'll make me if you sacrifice a romantic weekend at the beach just to play checkers with me." She leans forward to whisper, "You know, some of us live vicariously through you. A first love burns the hottest."

So I'm going. Our trip, via Gideon Gold's hyperloop, will take only four hours. We've reserved an autocab for the weekend, we have reservations for a horseback riding tour through Zuma Canyon, but we'll spend most of our days just swimming, fishing and lounging at Point Dume, a short walk from Mr. Gold's beach house. We've lucked into a break between the house's rentals, so nominally, Jo is going to inspect the property before the next renters arrive. Although the house is overseen by a property management company, Jo likes to visit every other year or so just to keep tabs (and get out of Storybrooke for a few days).

He's come by Arbors for a lunchtime picnic in the garden and some last-minute plans. "We'll have a chance to be ourselves," I suggest. "Not the roles Storybrooke has assigned to us. We'll get a chance to know each other the way no one else knows us."

He smiles. "That's a lot to accomplish in three days, but I do agree, it'll be freeing, being cut loose from our responsibilities." There's a soft ping from the ring he wears on his right hand. An electronic instrument rather than a fashion piece, the ring, which is identical to one many of us wear, keeps him connected to his communications devices. Different pings signal different callers; he can activate a tiny hologram in the ring if he wants to answer a call. He doesn't bother to activate the hologram for this particular call. "He's ready for us." Jo rises from the picnic blanket and offers me his hand. I accept it, letting him bring me to my feet, but I puzzle, "He who?"

Abandoning the picnic basket, he tucks my hand into his arm. "You'll see." I wonder if he has a car waiting to take us somewhere, but instead he leads me inside the Home and through the lobby to the east wing, the men's dorms. All the way down the corridor to the last and biggest set of private rooms—so we're going to Mr. Gold's. His door swishes open as soon as we approach. He's there in his wheelchair; he's dressed up in a new suit and he's grinning, not just a good-to-see-you grin but an I-did-something-you're-going-to-love grin. Balloons and streamers decorate the sitting room. There are a pitcher of punch, a candle-lit cake, and a gold-wrapped box on the coffee table. Andy stands off to the side of the couch, ready to pour. The House starts to play "The Birthday Song" as he shouts, "Happy birthday, Sparrow!"

My hand flies to my mouth. "Oh!"

Jo is grinning too as he lifts the cake. "We couldn't get you the pony, but we've covered all the other birthday bases."

"Including a magic act," Mr. Gold declares. "But you'll have to bend down for this trick." His waves me closer and I kneel beside his chair. With some effort, he manages to lift his arm and slide his hand behind my ear. "Abracadabra." He's trembling with the strain, and I can see it frustrates him to be so weak, but he maintains his grin as he brings his hand back from my ear to reveal a coin between his fingers. "For you, birthday girl."

I take the coin, to discover it's a gold wrapped chocolate. I remove the wrapping and pop the chocolate in my mouth. "Thank you, Mr. G." I kiss his cheek.

Jo jumps in. "Here, make a wish and blow out the candles."

It's a red velvet—my favorite—with my name etched into the cream icing. I scoop a bit of the icing onto my finger and lick it. "Did you bake it?"

"Of course. I wouldn't trust my beloved's first birthday cake to a bakery." A quick kiss, then he's urging me to admire the cake. "Now blow out the candles."

I made my wish (to always feel as loved as I do now), blow out the candles, then take the knife to cut three slices. Andy pours the punch as I fill the plates. With Andy assisting Mr. Gold, we eat and I admire the decorations as I thank them for making this day so special. "There will be many more," Jo assures me. "Next year I'll bring in the pony."

"I've never had a birthday party," I find myself saying, though both men already know this. "I've never had a birthday. You've made me feel. . .treasured."

"Speaking of," Mr. Gold winks at Jo, who reaches into his breast pocket. He holds out his open palm to me; a little wrapped box, with a tiny red bow, rests in his hand. "Happy birthday, Cherie."

A fingernail under the wrapping paper and the velvet box is free of its confinement. I run my fingertips over the velvet before flipping the box open. "Oooh, it's beautiful!" Tears sting my eyes; I've never been given jewelry before, unless you count the petite cross that Astrid gave me upon my first confirmation. Carefully, for it looks fragile, I lift the necklace from its velvet bed. A teardrop ruby about the size of my pinkie fingernail is suspended from a silver chain. I lay the jewel across my palm so it will catch the light.

"Your birthstone," Jo explains. "Let me put it on you." He walks behind me and lays the necklace against my skin, then catches the latch. Coming around to face me again, he nods in satisfaction. "It fits."

"Thank you, Jo. It's perfect!" I show my gratitude with a lengthy kiss.

Gold announces, "My turn now. Andy?"

Andy sets Mr. Gold's leftover cake aside before picking up the box and offering it to me. I have to let it slide from my grip and onto the floor because it's so heavy. I kneel to rip off the wrapping paper, expecting to expose a box, but instead I find a stateroom trunk. It's locked, which makes me all the more perplexed, but Jo hands me a key on a ribbon. With the iron lock undone, I lift the lid and look inside. Books, it's full of books, old books, untitled books with leather covers, the contents of some of them handwritten, some in foreign languages. I count thirty before I stop; there are at least twice that. No wonder the trunk was so heavy. The men watch me as I examine book after book, until I finally figure it out: "Magic! All of these books are about magic."

"A lifetime's work—several lifetimes, in fact, to amass this collection. The more common books Belle and I donated to the library long ago, but these, they're special. One of a kind. No other copies exist in this realm. I've kept them under lock and key and magical ward for more than three hundred years. The knowledge contained in some of these books could be dangerous. Some of the spells described herein, I've not dared to attempt. I believe that you can resist the temptation to tinker, even better than I could. The books will be safe in your protection."

I leap to my feet, slamming down the lid of the trunk. "I don't want—"

"That's why I trust them to you. When I first came to Arbors, I left them in Jo's father's care. When he retired, Jo inherited the burden. But the books moldered, unused all these years. Some of the magic described in them should never be used, but as I hope I've taught you, most magic isn't evil or good; it just is. It's how the sorcerer uses the magic that makes the difference. Sometimes, not even then: sometimes the evil or good in an act of magic won't be known for generations."

"I'm not ready for any of this. I'm still in the Dick-and-Jane stage of magic. I'm not ready for time travel spells or reanimating zombies or. . .whatever."

"You're right." He keeps his voice level. "You're not ready to cast any of this magic. But you are ready to protect these books. I need for you to be ready, you and Jo together. Most mages try to use their powers responsibly and unselfishly, but even the kindest of them could be enticed by the information in these books. First comes curiosity, then self-testing, then greed and craving for more. I think you're safe from that slippery slope."

"Why don't you give them to Blue? She has so much more power than I do, so much more experience. She's never tempted."

"For her, magic is all about following the rules. As I've tried to teach you, the rules exist for a reason and certain ones must never be violated. Because of that, she's never added a whit to the body of information. She's never created a new spell or altered an old one. These books would be a waste in her hands."

"But she would protect them with her life."

"Yes, she would. But what's the point in keeping the books, then, if the keeper will never use them or add to them? It would smarter, then, to burn them. You have imagination, Cerise, something not very many mages have. If you continue your studies—and I think your overwhelming sense of compassion will drive you to—you can someday build on what's here. Someday, you could write a book of your own."

Jo's curiosity is stirred now. "Did you? Is one of these books yours?"

Gold plays with us with a smile. "More than one. I'll leave it to you to figure out which ones I wrote."

I'm nearly frantic with the fear of the power beneath my fingers. "What if I burn them? Or stick them in the ground somewhere to molder? Or what if you're wrong and I use them to burn this town down?"

"That's a chance I'm willing to take, compared to the alternative of giving them to Blue." He reaches out to pat my hand as it rests on the trunk lid. "But I don't think you'll do any of those things. These books are safer with you than they were with me."

"I don't know, Mr. Gold." I ball up the wrapping paper and toss it into a trash can. "This could be the biggest mistake you've ever made."

He shakes his head. "Oh no, Sparrow. Not even close. Besides, I'm leaving these books with someone who has a gift I didn't have while I was collecting them." He turns his eyes to Jo. "I wonder sometimes how I would have been different if Bae hadn't left or if Belle had come into my life when I was first learning magic. But in more practical-minded moments, I remember that the second I acquired the dagger, I was invaded. It took years before I learned how to fight back against an army of Dark Ones. In those first few years, I would have destroyed anyone who tried to rescue me." He pauses to catch his breath. "Take the books. Hide them for now. When you're ready, you can use them."

"If ever." I thrust my hands on my hips and wheel about. "What about you, Jo? You're the current caretaker of these books. You've successfully protected them for years. Why don't you keep them?"

He sits down on the couch and runs a hand over his mouth. "I've given this a lot of thought. I think there might be a reason why we were brought together, the three of us, and why you and I, so seemingly mismatched, fell in love. A reason that's bigger than we can see, maybe than we ever will see. Accept the books, Cherie. We'll cope with them together. Take the books and take your time in deciding what to do with them. I'll have your back, whatever you decide."

"Happy birthday, me," I grumble, dropping onto the couch. "A birthday cake would have sufficed, Mr. Gold."

"I'm here, Sparrow. For the time being. If you need me."

Dragged down under my new burden, I fail to notice the wording of his offer. It will come back to haunt me.

When the House is quiet, Jo and I bury the books in the rose garden. I bury them but I can't forget.

* * *

When she comes out into the waiting room and gives me her professional smile, I don't recognize her. Not surprising: she left the convent when I was four and never returned. Laurel—or as the public calls her, Dr. Fée—is, like me, one of six fairies that were allowed to leave Storybrooke to study in the LWM in the past fifty years. She'd learned all she could from the library and her predecessor, who was a practitioner of folk medicine and had never studied the modern stuff, then it was time for her to go out in the world. The Fates had chosen her to study medicine. She'd taken to her calling with an almost religious fervor, the sisters said; her first act of mercy had been to bandage the nose of an alley dog that had come out on the wrong end of a street fight, and the first piece of writing that she learned to read was the Hippocratic Oath. When she was eight years old, it's said, she interrupted Mass to climb over a pew, scurry up to the pulpit, tug on Father's robes, and when he bent down to hiss at her to scat, she pushed down the skin beneath his eyes and peered into his irises. "Father, you better get to a doctor. You're gonna have a aneurysm." (He shooed her away, but went to the doctor the next day. Saved his life, her diagnosis did.)

I've always suspected the truth was stretched a bit on that story, a Storybrooke version of an urban legend, but we fairies trust her nonetheless with our secrets as well as our illnesses. Not that we have many of either, but she's one of kind, very literally, in this world: since her predecessor died, Laurel's been the only being in this entire world who knows about fairy medicine. We don't have enough sickness or injury to keep her working full-time, so she studied pediatrics as well; fairy anatomy is as close to human anatomy as a tangerine to an orange.

She ushers me into the examination room, the furniture of which was built for children; we fairies usually shrink ourselves down a bit so we can fit. She pats the examination table and gets busy taking my vitals even before she asks me why I've come. I assure her I'm feeling fine, but I have some questions concerning biology and uhm, I guess, laws and the, ah, interactions between the two. "Are you talking about stress?" she guesses. In my job, like hers, worries can pile up, especially when you care about your residents and sometimes they get sick and die.

"Of a nature, I guess." On the wall of her examining room, wooden blue puppies and yellow ducks and pink kittens dance, there to make the littlest patients laugh. I'm staring at them now. They're not working for me; I don't even feel a giggle coming on.

"You can save us both some time if you'll get to the point. I'm a doctor; I don't judge your behavior and I don't share your issues with anyone else, unless it's another doctor for a second opinion." She sees my hesitation and jumps in: "Not even Blue. She knows better than to ask."

Satisfied, I nod. "Well, then. You may have heard that I've been dating a man. A human. Well, mostly. He's half avian. Dove, specifically."

"Oh. The Dove family. Yes, I know them."

"Although, for all intents and purposes, he's human. Physiologically speaking." I've pressed closely against him enough times while we were kissing to be fairly certain of that fact.

Her eyes narrow; she seems to expect me to ask her to verify my assessment of Jo's anatomy. "I've never treated any of the Doves, but if I had, I couldn't tell you. . . information like that."

"Oh no." Finally I'm chuckling, but in embarrassment. "I wasn't going to ask. . .that. Actually, I intend to find out for myself, in the near future. See, Jo and I are taking a trip together tomorrow. If things go the way I hope they will, we'll become closer. Intimate."

"Sexually." Surprisingly, for a fairy, her facial features relax now that she knows the direction I'm taking this conversation. "You're not here to ask for contraceptives, are you?"

"No, no." I glare now at the dancing puppies. "Taupe taught me the facts of life when I was little. I know unwanted pregnancy—or wanted pregnancy, for that matter—is out of the question for us. But Taupe was pretty vague when it came to the facts of life for humans, and I'm afraid, although my college roommates were very open and frank about their exploits, their situations don't quite apply to me. I know what happens when humans make love. I know all about the emotional aspects and the psycho-physical ones. But that's human to human. What I don't know about is, what about fairy law? I mean, I've been told fairies aren't allowed to make love to humans. So what's the penalty if they do?"

"Oh." I've stunned the normally unflappable doctor. She sits down hard on the edge of a little purple chair. She thinks a moment, then comments, "I was hoping it would be a medical question. I'm not an expert on laws."

"No, but you're the only fairy who's under oath to keep my questions a secret."

She snorts. "That's so." She runs a hand over her face as if to wipe away the scowl forming. "Well, there's one relevant case I know of. A certain fairy. I can't reveal her name. She lived in Storybrooke, though she was never part of the convent. She preferred humans to her own species. She lived as one. Wouldn't socialize with us fairies."

"That's not saying much," I murmur. "Socializing with fairies is pretty dull."

"Awfully dull," Laurel agrees. She's had her knuckles rapped a few times for getting too close to humans, but what did Blue expect when Laurel went off to study at Emory? "She took lovers. Several. All human. She just wasn't attracted to elves and pixies, she said."

"And? What happened to her? Was her magic taken away? Were her wings clipped?" I shudder. "Or was she executed?"

"It was, I think, a mutual decision. Blue banished her to Misthaven, but I think she wanted to go. Storybrooke can be a judgmental place."

I'm sure now who Laurel is referring to. I suck in a breath. "Do you think, if Jo and I got married, the same would happen to me?"

"I'm the wrong one to ask. I don't know much about the laws, and I certainly don't know the minds of the Fates." Laurel rises and begins to pace as she thinks. "What I can say is that the work this other fairy was created for, she continues to do in Misthaven. She's been banished, but she continues to live the life she was meant to, and she continues to take lovers whenever she feels like it. Your situation is so different. Your job is here, tied to Storybrooke. If Blue or the Fates were to banish you, they'd be breaking another law. Besides, your relationship with Dove is not frivolous. True Love, if that's what you have, is the highest law. The Fates grant it to so few that when they do, they will aid the couple in protecting it. Though they might. . . make things difficult for you for a while."

"As they do with every couple. Not even Snow White and Prince Charming got off scot-free."

"I've read that the Fates believe that a few hurdles before a couple reaches the finish line of Happy Ever After are good for the soul and strengthen the relationship."

Now it's my turn to snort.

"So the short story is, I have no clue what Blue might do to punish you, but if True Love means for you to be with a human, you're going to be with a human. Period." She sits down again on the purple chair. "Now. Let's talk about something I know a bit about: how to make your first sexual encounter an enjoyable one. For both of you."

It takes me a moment for the realization to sink in. " _You_?"

She nods. "I trust you'll keep my secret. My first time was in my freshman year in college. . . ."

* * *

Jo and I stand, arms folded, in the Arbors lobby, watching the 'droids load our suitcases into the autocar. Except we're only pretending to watch the loading; we're actually watching, out of the corners of our eyes, a chess game going on in the dining room. Like many of the residents, we're quite interested, not just in the outcome of this game, but in the attitudes of the players, both of whom take their chess seriously—and who have been in competition with each other longer than many of us have been alive.

There's a glint in his eye as Mr. Gold glances across the board to his opponent. "It's your move, Blue."

"Yes, yes," she snaps. "Don't rush me."

"Excuse me if I seem to be in a rush. I'm an old man," he shrugs. "I may not have much time left."

She dismisses him with the flick of a wrist. "You have forever."

He clicks his tongue and mutters, "I'm sure you and I both wish that were not true."

Blue moves a piece and makes a sound I've never in my life heard her make: a crow. "Got you, Dark One! Checkmate!"

"Indeed, I've been gotten." Gold winks at me. "You kids have a good time in Malibu. Don't get sunburnt."

"We'll send you pictures," Jo assures him. "Including one of your son's hyperloop."

"He would resist calling it his," Gold corrects. "But it's a mistake I'm happy to ignore."

"See you Monday, Cerise." Blue doesn't look up; she's busy resetting the board. "Have a safe trip, Josiah."

"Yes, ma'am." Jo's grin broadens. Victory.

* * *

I can't keep still as we seat ourselves on the hyperloop bound from Portland to Los Angeles. I bounce from the aisle seat to the window seat, unable decide if I want to chat with the family seated across the aisle (two adults and two elementary-school aged kids, all wearing Mickey Mouse ears, obviously starting a vacation) or if I want to look out the window. Jo senses my division and gives me information that will help me choose when he reminds me that once the train starts, we'll be moving at 760 miles per hour and there won't be anything to see from the window. Thus decided, I move once more and strike up a conversation with the Hapberg family of Portland, who plan to see Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm, the Griffith Observatory, the botanical gardens, the marionette theater, the tar pits, and a dozen other places, all in their four-day trip. "This is your first visit to Los Angeles, isn't it?" Jo surmises.

Assuming from his tone that he's familiar with the environs, they pummel him with questions and make note of his answers. When their conversation winds down, I cock my head at Jo. I've always thought of him as stay-at-home kind of guy. "How many times have you been to LA?"

"Five or six times, I guess; I go once a year to inspect Mr. Gold's property. We hired a local for the day-to-day upkeep, but Mr. Gold likes me to do an annual inspection myself. Or so he says. Sometimes I wonder if it's really his way of arranging for me to have an all-expenses-paid vacation."

"A generous man." Mr. Gold is paying my expenses too. I'm his "visual resources agent," he says; my job is to take lots of photos of the ocean and the cottage he calls "Belle's house." Jo always forgets to take pictures, Mr. Gold says (to which Jo blushes and shrugs). This deal of ours, which I accept guiltily, gives me an idea: I will bring Gold back more than photos. I take an extra, empty suitcase for the treasures I'll bring back.

Our conversation moves to our own plans, more modest and quieter than the Hapbergs'. We sit thigh pressed to thigh, arm pressed to arm, though the hyperloop provides plenty of seat space; the proximity is both stimulating and reassuring. Although he's an experienced traveler, Jo has admitted to me, in private, that high-speed travel makes him nervous; he usually takes a pill and sleeps his way through these trips. Learning that about him gives me a little ego boost: I don't have such nerves and so I can be a support for him.

As we dismount from the hyperloop and hail an autocab, Jo asks, "Are you tired? That vehicle"—he nods back at the silver train—"always makes me tired." I give him a look that makes him chuckle, "No, of course not."

"But we should go to the house first, make the inspection and unpack," I concede. "We are employees, after all." So we proceed to fulfill our duties.

Belle's Birdview Avenue house is a 1,600-square-foot, four-bedroom, two-bath—large by Storybrooke standards but modest by Malibu expectations. There's no pool, for example ("Belle didn't see the need for one, when we're just yards from the ocean," Gold has said). The kitchen is not a cook's kitchen: just enough space for one person to bake in (or two, as Gold reflects, to pack a picnic). The décor is minimalist, meant not to distract from the beautiful hardwood floors and the ceiling-to-floor windows that accentuate the house's most valuable feature, the view of the Pacific.

I toss my cases onto the couch and make a beeline for that view. I'm transfixed. As a Mainer, the ocean is nothing new, nothing special to me, but the Pacific is so much bluer, the sands so much whiter, and I'm taken in by the drama of the orange ball of flame hanging in a fluffy-cloud sky, ready at any minute to begin its descent into the ever-changing water. After flipping on the house lights, Jo joins me at the windows. He runs his finger along the glass. "The cleaners have been neglecting these windows," he mutters. "And there's dust on the kitchen counters." I can't see those flaws; all I see is color, vivid primary colors that make my eyes ache. Jo slips his arm around my waist and rests his chin on my head. We just stand there, silent, waiting as the sun sinks. I'm not thinking about anything, just feeling.

At last he breaks the trance. "Every time I come out here, I thank the generations before ours who saw the beauty we just saw and chose to preserve it, at the cost of big tax increases."

In school I saw mid-twentieth-century photos of California's littered beaches, dying sealife, soupy skies. "Even those who didn't see the beauty could see the profit in cleaning up this environment," I remember from my textbooks. "What they lost in taxes, they recouped in tourist dollars and property purchases."

"The future is investable," Jo agrees. His eyes meet mine through the reflection in the glass. "I believe that about us, too."

I'm not sure what he means, but I need to know. "You and me, do you mean? As a couple?"

He swings me around so we can face each other. "Cherie, what I'm seeing right now. . . ." He pauses before plunging in. "Is you and me standing here, maybe I'm bald and my shoulders are stooped, maybe your hair is thin and gray and lines crease your eyes, but we're standing here on a summer's day just like this, looking out on this view, exactly unchanged, except out there, erecting a castle with that white sand are three little kids wearing Mickey Mouse ears."

"Three."

"Three."

"Are they ours?"

"Our daughter's. We're babysitting for the weekend."

A weight presses against my heart and I want to pull away from him, but his arms hold me snugly. He frowns down at me, guessing my thoughts. "Don't rob us of a future together, just because of what the generations before us couldn't do. Even if that daughter isn't born to us, she can still be ours."

"There are children out there who need homes," I say slowly.

"They'll find us, if the Fates will it."

We order dinner in. Though I'm raring to begin our California adventure, Jo is tired, so we'll stay in tonight, get an early start in the morning. We check our messages—everything's well at home—and after washing up, we take a blanket and my camera down to the waterside. The ocean even smells different here. We lie on our backs to count the stars.

Eventually, something in the air shifts and the sea breeze grows chilly, bringing goosebumps to our arms. "I suppose we should go in," Jo suggests, his voice heavy. Drowsiness, I interpret it as, but underlain with a desire that could be easily awakened. He drags himself to his feet and offers me a hand. "I didn't put the suitcases away. I wasn't sure—there are four bedrooms."

I cut through his modesty, tugging at his hand so that he meets my gaze, steady and certain. "I want to sleep together."

His weariness blows away on the breeze and he grins. "Let's put the suitcases away."

* * *

The guest room that we think Joy preferred whenever she visited faces east, away from the ocean, but I've found that if I stand just so at its corner windows I can see a sliver of water. As the dawn brightens the sky, I deliberate for a moment whether to relocate to the living room so I can enjoy nature's show in full effect, but spread out in the bed behind me is the man I love, and I can't bear to be parted from him just yet, even if he is sound asleep (and snoring). Our responsibilities will part us soon enough; we should cling to the few hours we have.

We could have taken the master bedroom, without guilt: after all, it's been decades since Belle and Gold shared it, and dozens of tenants have sleep in it since those days. But with no discussion necessary, we took the smaller guest room, where Jo usually sleeps on his annual visits. The bed is a bit short for him, but he manages to get comfortable just the same (even more so, he smiles, because at last he's sharing it).

When he finally rolls over, stretches and sits up, I come to stand between his knees, my hands on his shoulders. His eyebrows raise in uncertainty and I nod the answer to his unspoken question. "I feel great."

"So do I," he agrees.

I lean in to kiss him. "In fact I'd like to do it again."

He returns the kiss. "I'd like to, too."

* * *

We're standing on the deck after having enjoyed our breakfast out here. It's going to be a hot, cloudless day, and we really should get it started, he with his inspection, me with the gift shopping I need to do (I have a list of Storybrookers to buy small souvenirs for). But we can't seem to find the urgency to leave this house.

He stands behind me, arms encircling my torso and nose nuzzling my ear. His actions send a shiver up my spine and a flush throughout my skin. I'm nearly ready to suggest we go back to bed when he whispers, "You're still here."

I'm puzzled. "Did you think I would run away?"

"No. I mean, we made love and the Fates didn't take you away."

"They might have taken my wings or my magic. I won't know until we get back home."

He stops nuzzling. "Hey, that's right. We're in the Land Without Magic. If we stay here, the Fates and Blue can't reach you."

"Do you want to stay here?" I can't see his face so I don't know if he's kidding, but it's not in Jo's nature to tease.

"I would be happy here. Would you?"

I sigh and lean back into his arms. "It's a lovely daydream." And a dangerous one. Daydreams, I'm learning, can be the apple dangled by the serpent. We won't bite; we both have people who depend on us back home. I change the subject. "I thought of the perfect thank-you for Mr. Gold."

"Some seashells?" he guesses.

I wave my hand toward the ocean. "Nope. That." At Jo's puzzled look, I explain, "I want to paint the ocean. At sunset, from a picnic blanket. Will you help me?"

"He'll like that. We'll begin tonight." He seizes my waist.

"We should get going, I suppose."

"I suppose we should." He presses his mouth to my neck.

"Well, in about a half-hour." His kisses travel down to my collarbone. I change my mind: "Maybe an hour." His hands slide up from my waist. "Or two."

* * *

We take a whale watching cruise after breakfast, then lunch on the pier. Letting our food digest, we stroll hand in hand, talking and browsing in the gift shops. I complete my required shopping, ordering the gifts to be mailed back to Storybrooke: I've even bought a hand-painted seashell for Blue. He stands before a shelf filled with roses encased in crystal; there are red, pink, yellow and purple roses, but he chooses a white one that's smaller than the others and not fully open. "For Mr. Gold. When the Golds lived in Storybrooke, Mom helped Belle plant roses," he says. The red ones are bigger, the purple ones more exotic, but, he explains, "the white ones were Mr. G.'s favorite."

After a Universal Studios tour, we hurry back to Belle's house, just in time for twilight. As Jo prepares dinner, I set my blanket on the beach and begin to make sketches from which I'll derive my painting. I'm afraid I don't get very far: fresh bread, pasta, wine and kisses drag me away from the sketchbook. My camera whirs, taking photos for me to capture each stage of the sunset. We are ready for bed, but not for sleep, when my phone rings.

I press the "visuals" button, explaining to Jo, "It's Blue. She wouldn't call if it wasn't important." He accepts this answer and leaves to tidy the kitchen.

"Cerise, sorry to disturb." Her voice is business brusque; she's not sorry at all, but she won't keep me on the call long. "Just calling to let you know, Ms. Hua passed this evening. Her heart gave out."

I don't know what to say. I should've expected this, but I haven't; Ms. Hua always seems—seemed—so youthfully energetic. "Was she in pain?"

"I don't think so. She didn't come to dinner, said she was tired and went right to bed. Mr. Gold went in to chat with her, as they often did. He was there for more than an hour, I believe, then he summoned Amaranth and Dr. Marine. It was a good death, Cerise."

I suppose Blue thinks she's comforting me, but death is never good. I turn my head away from the phone so she can't see me blubbering, and in the kitchen, Jo's head snaps up. He's kneeling by my side as Blue is reporting—as coolly as an anchorwoman reading the evening news—the funeral arrangements, set for Wednesday, to allow time for Ms. Hua's relatives to come to Storybrooke. I don't catch what she says; my own sobs are too loud. It's all right; Jo's phone beeps and he shows me the message: "Josiah. Ms. Hua has died. Expect charges on my bank account from the Crane Funeral Home. Please extend my sympathies to Cerise. Gold." Following his message are the details for the funeral.

"Poor Mr. Gold." I suddenly remember that Hua was his closest friend at the Home and I'm crying all over again. Jo's shirt becomes my handkerchief; his chest, my hiding place from the world. "We'll go home tomorrow," he assures me.

I redirect my swollen eyes to the ocean. "It was nice while it lasted."

"We'll be back," he promises. "Our grandchildren will play on that beach."

* * *

We are burying Ms. Hua today. I have nothing else to say.


End file.
